Please note I am only using two bags for one example to show how a VERY extreme situation you could use two to get out of it but one is all you need for 99% of situations. I launched my first "signature product" three years ago with Kessler Crane, the Philip Bloom Pocket Dolly: http://gopb.co/pbdolly and have been approached to do others since but not felt the need to do anything else or was excited enough about anything or why my name need be on it. Although I do have my own fragrance and swimwear line coming out soon! ;) Vbag sent me some of their older bags to check out. I said I liked them, but would prefer a number of things changed for me to really like and use it. Smaller, lighter, smaller pump, softer more flexible material to mould more easily to awkward things and still have the hole to attach to bag...I needed to make it as portable as possible for my work...They said OK and that is really how the second product came about! It's incredibly flattering to have my name now on two film making products and I love this one to bits. It's so bloody useful and easy to carry around. Honestly it has gotten me out of a number of awkward spots already in placing the camera where I want it. In this video I explain what it is, what it does and how to use it. For the whole of November, to tie in with my fundraising campaign for Movember http://gopb.co/movember (where can you win one of these bags!) they are selling these at a discounted price of €149 euros (+VAT if applicable) or $189! These are being sold exclusively by the manufacturer: www.vbag.com Enjoy the video and if you buy the bag I hope you love it as much as I do! Filmed by Nino Leitner Edited by Philip Bloom Assistant Kat Dietl.

• published: 05 Nov 2012
• views: 39080

The Old Fools What do they think has happened, the old fools, To make them like this? Do they somehow suppose It's more grown-up when your mouth hangs open and drools, And you keep on pissing yourself, and can't remember Who called this morning? Or that, if they only chose, They could alter things back to when they danced all night, Or went to their wedding, or sloped arms some September? Or do they fancy there's really been no change, And they've always behaved as if they were crippled or tight, Or sat through days of thin continuous dreaming Watching the light move? If they don't (and they can't), it's strange; Why aren't they screaming? At death you break up: the bits that were you Start speeding away from each other for ever With no one to see. It's only oblivion, true: We had it before, but then it was going to end, And was all the time merging with a unique endeavour To bring to bloom the million-petalled flower Of being here. Next time you can't pretend There'll be anything else. And these are the first signs: Not knowing how, not hearing who, the power Of choosing gone. Their looks show that they're for it: Ash hair, toad hands, prune face dried into lines - How can they ignore it? Perhaps being old is having lighted rooms Inside you head, and people in them, acting People you know, yet can't quite name; each looms Like a deep loss restored, from known doors turning, Setting down a lamp, smiling from a stair, extracting A known book from the shelves; or sometimes only The rooms themselves, chairs and a fire burning, The blown bush at the window, or the sun's Faint friendliness on the wall some lonely Rain-ceased midsummer evening. That is where they live: Not here and now, but where all happened once. This is why they give An air of baffled absence, trying to be there Yet being here. For the rooms grow farther, leaving Incompetent cold, the constant wear and tear Of taken breath, and them crouching below Extinction's alp, the old fools, never perceiving How near it is. This must be what keeps them quiet: The peak that stays in view wherever we go For them is rising ground. Can they never tell What is dragging them back, and how it will end? Not at night? Not when the strangers come? Never, throughout The whole hideous inverted childhood? Well, We shall find out. -------------- ELS VELLS XIMPLES (Versió de Josep Porcar) Què deuen pensar que els ha passat, els vells ximples, per acabar d'aquesta manera? Potser consideren que és més assenyat anar així, bocabadats, bavejants, pixant-se a sobre, incapaços de recordar qui els ha trucat aquest matí? O creuen que, al seu albir, ho podrien capgirar tot i retornar a les nits de ball interminables, o al dia del seu casament, o al setembre aquell amb el fusell penjat? O ja s'imaginen que realment res no ha canviat, que s'han comportat sempre com si fossin tarats o embriacs, o que s'han passat els dies rere el tel d'un somni etern, mirant com la llum va i ve? I si no ho creuen (que no poden), és estrany; Per què no bramen? Quan mors, et desfàs: els bocins del teu ésser comencen immediatament a esvanir-se per a sempre, sense testimonis. És només l'oblit, cert: ja ens l'havíem topat abans, però llavors era sempre transitori i permanentment se'ns fonia amb l'anhel inigualable de voler florir en la flor del milió de pètals de ser aquí. D'ara endavant no podeu aparentar que ens trobarem una altra cosa. I aquests són els primers senyals: no saber com, no reconèixer qui, el poder de decidir, balafiat. La seva fatxa els delata: cabell cendrós, mans de tòtil, cara pansida, a solcs– Com ho poden ignorar? Tal vegada, envellir sigui tenir cambres enllumenades a l'interior del teu cap, i gent a dins, actuant. Gent coneguda, que no pots anomenar; cadascú emergeix, com una greu pèrdua reparada, de portes familiars que giravolten, col·locant un fanal, somrient des d'algun esglaó, agafant dels prestatges un llibre conegut; o bé, a vegades, les cambres solament, cadires i un foc encès, l'arbust tremolant en la finestra, o el sol sobre el mur acollidorament tebi en un solitari vespre d'estiu, després de la pluja. És allà on viuen: no aquí ni ara, sinó on tot s'hi esdevingué una vegada. És per això que tenen un semblant d'esbalaïda absència, car volen restar allà i romanen aquí. Per les cambres s'allunyen, desprenent una fredor matussera, el constant desgast de recuperar l'alè, i ells arrupits al peu del cingle de l'extinció, els vells ximples, sense adonar-se que és a tocar. Això explicaria per què van tan tranquils: aquell cim que nosaltres ataüllem, on sigui que anem, per a ells és terra rosta. ¿És que no se n'adonen, d'allò que els ressaga, ni de com s'acabarà? Tampoc de nit? Ni quan apareixen els estranys? No mai, ni una sola vegada durant aquesta monstruosa tornada a la infància? Doncs bé, ja ho esbrinarem.

• published: 25 Nov 2009
• views: 4121

Please note I am only using two bags for one example to show how a VERY extreme situation you could use two to get out of it but one is all you need for 99% of situations. I launched my first "signature product" three years ago with Kessler Crane, the Philip Bloom Pocket Dolly: http://gopb.co/pbdolly and have been approached to do others since but not felt the need to do anything else or was excited enough about anything or why my name need be on it. Although I do have my own fragrance and swimwear line coming out soon! ;) Vbag sent me some of their older bags to check out. I said I liked them, but would prefer a number of things changed for me to really like and use it. Smaller, lighter, smaller pump, softer more flexible material to mould more easily to awkward things and still have the hole to attach to bag...I needed to make it as portable as possible for my work...They said OK and that is really how the second product came about! It's incredibly flattering to have my name now on two film making products and I love this one to bits. It's so bloody useful and easy to carry around. Honestly it has gotten me out of a number of awkward spots already in placing the camera where I want it. In this video I explain what it is, what it does and how to use it. For the whole of November, to tie in with my fundraising campaign for Movember http://gopb.co/movember (where can you win one of these bags!) they are selling these at a discounted price of €149 euros (+VAT if applicable) or $189! These are being sold exclusively by the manufacturer: www.vbag.com Enjoy the video and if you buy the bag I hope you love it as much as I do! Filmed by Nino Leitner Edited by Philip Bloom Assistant Kat Dietl.

• published: 05 Nov 2012
• views: 39080

The Old Fools What do they think has happened, the old fools, To make them like this? Do they somehow suppose It's more grown-up when your mouth hangs open and drools, And you keep on pissing yourself, and can't remember Who called this morning? Or that, if they only chose, They could alter things back to when they danced all night, Or went to their wedding, or sloped arms some September? Or do they fancy there's really been no change, And they've always behaved as if they were crippled or tight, Or sat through days of thin continuous dreaming Watching the light move? If they don't (and they can't), it's strange; Why aren't they screaming? At death you break up: the bits that were you Start speeding away from each other for ever With no one to see. It's only oblivion, true: We had it before, but then it was going to end, And was all the time merging with a unique endeavour To bring to bloom the million-petalled flower Of being here. Next time you can't pretend There'll be anything else. And these are the first signs: Not knowing how, not hearing who, the power Of choosing gone. Their looks show that they're for it: Ash hair, toad hands, prune face dried into lines - How can they ignore it? Perhaps being old is having lighted rooms Inside you head, and people in them, acting People you know, yet can't quite name; each looms Like a deep loss restored, from known doors turning, Setting down a lamp, smiling from a stair, extracting A known book from the shelves; or sometimes only The rooms themselves, chairs and a fire burning, The blown bush at the window, or the sun's Faint friendliness on the wall some lonely Rain-ceased midsummer evening. That is where they live: Not here and now, but where all happened once. This is why they give An air of baffled absence, trying to be there Yet being here. For the rooms grow farther, leaving Incompetent cold, the constant wear and tear Of taken breath, and them crouching below Extinction's alp, the old fools, never perceiving How near it is. This must be what keeps them quiet: The peak that stays in view wherever we go For them is rising ground. Can they never tell What is dragging them back, and how it will end? Not at night? Not when the strangers come? Never, throughout The whole hideous inverted childhood? Well, We shall find out. -------------- ELS VELLS XIMPLES (Versió de Josep Porcar) Què deuen pensar que els ha passat, els vells ximples, per acabar d'aquesta manera? Potser consideren que és més assenyat anar així, bocabadats, bavejants, pixant-se a sobre, incapaços de recordar qui els ha trucat aquest matí? O creuen que, al seu albir, ho podrien capgirar tot i retornar a les nits de ball interminables, o al dia del seu casament, o al setembre aquell amb el fusell penjat? O ja s'imaginen que realment res no ha canviat, que s'han comportat sempre com si fossin tarats o embriacs, o que s'han passat els dies rere el tel d'un somni etern, mirant com la llum va i ve? I si no ho creuen (que no poden), és estrany; Per què no bramen? Quan mors, et desfàs: els bocins del teu ésser comencen immediatament a esvanir-se per a sempre, sense testimonis. És només l'oblit, cert: ja ens l'havíem topat abans, però llavors era sempre transitori i permanentment se'ns fonia amb l'anhel inigualable de voler florir en la flor del milió de pètals de ser aquí. D'ara endavant no podeu aparentar que ens trobarem una altra cosa. I aquests són els primers senyals: no saber com, no reconèixer qui, el poder de decidir, balafiat. La seva fatxa els delata: cabell cendrós, mans de tòtil, cara pansida, a solcs– Com ho poden ignorar? Tal vegada, envellir sigui tenir cambres enllumenades a l'interior del teu cap, i gent a dins, actuant. Gent coneguda, que no pots anomenar; cadascú emergeix, com una greu pèrdua reparada, de portes familiars que giravolten, col·locant un fanal, somrient des d'algun esglaó, agafant dels prestatges un llibre conegut; o bé, a vegades, les cambres solament, cadires i un foc encès, l'arbust tremolant en la finestra, o el sol sobre el mur acollidorament tebi en un solitari vespre d'estiu, després de la pluja. És allà on viuen: no aquí ni ara, sinó on tot s'hi esdevingué una vegada. És per això que tenen un semblant d'esbalaïda absència, car volen restar allà i romanen aquí. Per les cambres s'allunyen, desprenent una fredor matussera, el constant desgast de recuperar l'alè, i ells arrupits al peu del cingle de l'extinció, els vells ximples, sense adonar-se que és a tocar. Això explicaria per què van tan tranquils: aquell cim que nosaltres ataüllem, on sigui que anem, per a ells és terra rosta. ¿És que no se n'adonen, d'allò que els ressaga, ni de com s'acabarà? Tampoc de nit? Ni quan apareixen els estranys? No mai, ni una sola vegada durant aquesta monstruosa tornada a la infància? Doncs bé, ja ho esbrinarem.

• published: 25 Nov 2009
• views: 4121